Mindjacker

by C. A. Hartman

  “Why would they? They ain’t seen our faces.”

  Jones didn’t know about Noah, not yet. “But Linden has, several times. Anyway, I just… I came unhinged for a minute. I hit a low point and I’m sorry.”

  He swayed some more, looking down at his feet. “I shoulda been more understanding. And I shouldn’t have said that thing about Easy Street. I didn’t mean it.”

  “I want the nice shit, Jones. I do. But that’s not the only reason I do this—”

  “It’s alright to want nicer shit,” he said, his eyes on her again. “Who wouldn’t? My old girlfriend wanted nice stuff. I couldn’t give it to her. I wanted to but I couldn’t afford it, and I ain’t goin’ into debt and makin’ my situation worse. Maybe that’s why I came down on you so hard. I hated that feeling, like I couldn’t give her that. And it wasn’t just that. It’s like… it’s never enough, you know? No matter how hard you work, something goes wrong. And it makes you feel….” He shook his head, unable to find the words.

  “Powerless.”

  “Yeah!” he said, his eyes flaring with emotion. “It fucken sucks bein’ a man, feelin’ like you can’t even buy your girlfriend a decent piece of jewelry that’s not that shit they sell on the corner, like you can’t even take care of your family. Makes you feel like you aren’t a man.”

  “I can’t relate to that, but I know what powerlessness feels like for me. It feels like having to grow eyes on the back of my head to walk anywhere Downtown. Like having to learn to fight, and having to wear a jacket and carry these around everywhere I go…” She held up her weapon and brass knuckles. “It feels like spending thirteen years avoiding Coyote because you can’t stand the idea of passing the alley where three thugs tried to gang-rape you at fifteen years old and only stopped because one of their mothers yelled at them, and then blamed you for wearing a midriff top on a 129-degree day!” Quinn stopped herself, realizing she was choked up and about two seconds from crying.

  Jones stared at her. “That shit happened to you?”

  She nodded, forcing the tears away.

  “Was that the only time?”

  She shook her head. “That was just the worst.” She shook a deep breath to calm herself. “So yeah, I want the nice stuff, but what I really want is to get away from all those bad memories… and to feel like I have some control over my life.”

  “Fuck,” he said quietly. “I shouldn’t have judged you like that.”

  She shook her head. “I judged you, too. You look just like the guys I grew up with, including the ones who did those things. Until today, I didn’t realize how much those experiences influenced how I see the world… and men, too.”

  “The thing is, all this,” he motioned to himself, “is necessary. The tats, the aggressive attitude… that’s survival shit right there. I learned that real quick when Dad died, that you can’t be weak and survive where we come from. Nobody fucks with me most of the time, and they’re sorry when they do.”

  Quinn nodded. Both had learned to survive in their own way… but their survival mechanisms came with a price.

  “That dress ruined?” Jones said. “The pretty red one you wore?”

  She nodded.

  “It looked expensive.”

  “It was.”

  He looked down. “Sorry.”

  She shook her head. “Don’t apologize. You saved us, Jones. You were… brilliant.”

  Jones looked appreciative for a moment. “Found out somethin’ today. Somethin’ fucked up.”

  She scoffed. “More fucked up than what we’ve already seen?”

  “Borelli’s dead.”

  Quinn gaped at him, prickles of chill running through her. “What happened?”

  “Dunno. Someone found him in the alley behind his joint, his skull crushed.”

  “When?”

  “Right after we jacked him.”

  Quinn closed her eyes for a moment. “Fuck.”

  “Something ain’t right here. There’s some crooked shit goin’ down. I told the Protectorate all I know, but they say they don’t know any more than we do. Maybe they’re fuckin’ with us, but maybe not.”

  “Do they still want the job done?”

  He shrugged. “Didn’t say they didn’t. But that’s up to you, and Yolanda.” He glanced at her again. “Look. I know we ain’t ideal partners, and I know this job has been cursed from the start. But if the job’s still on the table, I say we run that bitch and prove to those fuckers what we’re made of, that our mistakes were nothin’ but a run of bad luck. When it’s done, we vouch for each other.”

  Quinn nodded, Jones’s impassioned speech only further reinforcing her commitment to succeed. But she had a worrisome thought. “But something about this job isn’t right.”

  “I know. But I can tell you one thing. I’ve been trackin’ Linden’s calls. He’s workin’ with someone, someone I can’t trace calls to, but it ain’t the Protectorate and it ain’t the cops.”

  Quinn blinked in surprise. “Then why did the cops show?”

  Then she remembered. Because of her. Because Noah knew she had plans for Saturday night and had correctly assumed she would go after Linden. Yet…

  “Yeah, that’s what I can’t figure out,” Jones said. “Unless it’s a bad cop, up to some shit on the side…”

  Quinn paused at that. Along with her missing computer and art, it was another sign that Noah could be the one thing that was worse than jacker police: crooked jacker police.

  Jones went on. “Whoever Linden’s workin’ with, they can’t be that good or we’d have heard about ’em by now. I say you talk to Yolanda and get the green light, then we get back in there and finish this shit, and move on to whatever’s next.”

  Quinn chuckled, impressed with Jones. “You talk a lot of sense for a thug.”

  “You finally listenin’, girl.” He smiled.

  Quinn laughed at that. “I’ll let you know what Queen Yolanda says.”

  Quinn paced the sidewalk, turning up the volume on her phone again so she could hear Yolanda’s voice over the traffic.

  “We heard about Mr. Borelli,” Yolanda said. “We’re as baffled as you are.”

  “Did you find anything in his data?”

  “Not much. We saw no evidence that he was working with the police or anyone else. Whatever Linden’s up to, he didn’t share it with Borelli.”

  “Which means Linden is even more dangerous than we thought.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  No mention of the police. No mention of any sketch or search for her. Which only confirmed to Quinn that Noah was up to something bad.

  “So what now?” Quinn said.

  “You and Jones will have to find a way to get Linden, any way you can.”

  Quinn sighed, torn between feeling annoyed at what the Protectorate was asking of them and feeling grateful that Yolanda was willing to give her another chance. “Linden’s red hot now. He knows we’re after him, and so do the cops.”

  “And?”

  “Does that require explanation?”

  “Quinn, if you want to be a Tier One agent, you have to deal with situations like this. You have to outsmart the cops. Are you prepared to do that?”

  “Yes.”

  And she was.

  “Good. This is it, Quinn. Do not disappoint me.”

  Yolanda hung up.

  Quinn stood there for a moment, every setback she’d faced and every insight she’d gained competing for front and center in her mind.

  Fuck you, Linden. I’m coming after your crooked ass, and none of you bastards are going to stop me from getting what I want.

  She called Jones.

  “Hey, girl,” he said.

  “Get ready, man. We’re on.”

  Chapter 33

  Quinn and Jones sat in the cool darkness of Hole, Quinn sipping her diablo as Jones drank a root beer. It turned out that Jones didn’t drink. He’d watched too many people succumb to the draw of alcohol, including himself in his younger years
, so he abstained. They’d been plotting and planning for the last hour.

  “Looks like we’re down to one option,” Jones said.

  “A home invasion,” Quinn said.

  He nodded. “I found Linden’s place without much trouble. Uptown high-rise.”

  “I look forward to seeing the view,” she said sarcastically.

  Jones gave a wry chuckle. “I look forward to whatever the Protectorate does to that dick after we thieve his fucken mind.”

  Quinn laughed. For once, they agreed completely. This was their chance, their last.

  And it was no small task. They would have to travel to a rich man’s neighborhood and break into a rich man’s security system in order to invade a rich man’s mind. They would have to sedate not only Linden’s wife, but his three children, two of whom were old enough to possibly still be awake, even that late at night. They had to jack a man whose mind had been trained to avoid invasion, a man who knew they were jackers, who knew her face and would take extra precautions. And they had to do all of that knowing that the police could show at a moment’s notice.

  They also had to do all that after Quinn had gotten physically and emotionally involved with a badge-carrying member of the jacker police, one who’d been trying to snag her since the moment he messaged her for a meetup. One who was probably crooked and dangerous.

  Quinn’s phone rang, startling her. When she saw who was calling, her stomach turned upside down.

  Noah.

  She silenced it.

  Jones eyed her, recognizing her agitation. “Who was that?”

  “No one important.”

  Jones looked unconvinced. “Sure about that?”

  “It’s fine. I’ll deal with it later.”

  They continued making plans, agreeing on some things, disagreeing on others, sparring now and again. But now the sparring lacked the acrimony and mistrust of their previous squabbles. For the first time, Quinn realized she’d begun to trust Jones, and he was the first person she’d trusted since Daria. She was reminded of her dad’s oddly wise words about change, about doing things that are hard in order to get what you want.

  “You thought about how you gonna celebrate when we get this shit done and you get status?” Jones finally asked her.

  She shook her head. “I don’t like to count my iguanas before they hatch. Especially on this job. And you sound confident for someone who used to gripe about what a shit job this is.”

  He shrugged. “I gotta good feeling about this one.”

  Quinn smiled a little. “I hope you’re right.”

  He stood up. “I gotta get home. Showtime tomorrow?”

  Quinn nodded.

  After Jones left, Quinn checked her messages.

  “Hey, Quinn. It’s Noah.” He sounded clipped, edgy. “I just… I’ve been thinking about our last conversation and… I don’t get it. I mean, if you aren’t into it or you don’t want a guy in your life, that’s fine, I guess. But… I like to think I’m pretty good at reading people, and I wasn’t getting that from you at all. And I’m just wondering if there’s something you need to tell me, maybe about your work or something else… whatever it is, I’ll listen. I won’t judge you. I won’t report you or tell anyone. I just… I just want to know the truth. We had something, and I haven’t felt like that…” A pause. “I want to understand, that’s all. I can meet any night this week, even late if that’s better for you, wherever you want. Just to talk. Call me, or message me what nights you have open. Please.”

  Quinn felt a painful dread as she listened. As insane as it sounded, part of her wanted to call him. To reassure him, to explain. He sounded so damned… genuine.

  But he wasn’t. Her feelings were genuine, not his. Noah was doing his job. He’d been so close to nabbing her, and now he needed to tread carefully with her. Damn, he was good. If she hadn’t seen him from the dumpster, she would have fallen for all of it. His wanting to meet, wanting to know her schedule… he knew she’d probably try to hit Linden again and was hoping for a few clues.

  Manipulative prick.

  Then she had an idea. A perfect idea. She could be a manipulative prick, too. She picked up her phone and messaged Noah.

  Hey, Noah. Got your message. I’m free Thurs, Fri, or Sun. Angel’s?

  Within a couple of minutes, she heard back.

  Friday’s good. Appreciate it. 8pm?

  Perfect. See you then.

  Her gamble had paid off. He’d picked Friday. He would assume she was waiting until Saturday to act, just like before. He would hope to get some useful information or even a confession from her on Friday night; if not, he would be ready for Linden’s signal on Saturday.

  And that was a pretty good plan for Noah… if the job were on Saturday. But it wasn’t.

  The job was Thursday.

  By the time Friday rolled around, she and Jones would be done and the data in the Protectorate’s hands, and Noah wouldn’t have anything but circumstantial evidence on her.

  This time, she would win.

  Chapter 34

  Quinn wore cargoes, a leather jacket, and the funky blue wig she saved for jobs where she needed an extra boost. She tried to ignore how hot she was, despite it being three in the morning. At least Linden’s would be cool, thanks to central air and the money to run it twenty-four hours a day.

  Jones looked hot too, beads of sweat building on his brow and near the line of his newly grown-out blond hair. He worked to disable the high-rise building’s security system while Quinn alternated between overseeing the process and keeping watch.

  They could have gone in through the lobby. But Uptown lobbies had doormen, and doormen were a much bigger obstacle than even a top-of-the-line security system. Doormen had memories. Doormen had phones to call the police. And some doormen had weapons. No, it was far better to disable the alarm system, and disable any failsafes in place in case the main system went down, and enter through the alley entrance.

  At that late hour, Linden’s beautiful, quiet neighborhood was still. Nobody was around, couples and families all nestled under their covers to stay warm from their chilly AC. As they’d walked from the subway to Linden’s building, Quinn couldn’t help but gawk at the clean sidewalks, the glass and stone architecture, and the occasional patch of desert plants with privately funded irrigation.

  But she found herself missing the noise and clamor of Downtown, which quieted at that hour but never, ever ceased. Even some areas of Midtown had late-night activity, people leaving bars or clubs or midnight shows, taxis cruising and looking for paying passengers. She didn’t miss the noise itself; she missed that the activity made it easier for her and Jones to escape notice. In Uptown, they looked out of place, and every damned footstep seemed to echo off the buildings.

  Jones continued working on the alarm system, and soon he gave the nod. They were in. They tiptoed inside and found the stairwell, the one that nobody used because it was designed for safety. Even the fittest person didn’t want to haul their butt up—or down—a hundred floors or more.

  The elevators weren’t an option. Elevators had cameras. Accessing them also meant being seen by the doorman and any other residents who happened to be up that late, possibly returning home after a rousing night at one of the clubs.

  The stairwell was hot. Even rich people didn’t waste money cooling a passageway that no one used. And it only got hotter as they slowly climbed their way toward the seventy-sixth floor. Thirty floors up, Quinn was breathing heavily and sweating like crazy, and her wigged head itched. She could hear Jones behind her, laboring. Finally, throat parched and legs burning, they reached their destination and opened the door.

  In the hallway, the carpet was so clean that it looked brand new, and the walls were lined with expensive wallpaper and brass lamps. The blast of cool air was a relief. When they reached Linden’s place, Jones spent several more minutes attempting to disable another set of security efforts, Quinn keeping her eyes and ears alert for anyone coming.

  J
ones cursed under his breath, beginning to get frustrated as he wiped sweat off his brow, still overheated from their long stair climb. Quinn reached into her pocket and pulled out something, then put her hand on Jones’s shoulder. He looked up and she handed him her handkerchief, which she’d wet and stowed in her pocket before the job. She’d done so in case she got overheated—a small thing like that could make all the difference—not to mention that a kerchief had a variety of other uses. Jones took it and placed it on his forehead, then dabbed his face and neck. He handed the kerchief back, looking relieved.

  Then, Quinn heard a sound. The hum of the elevator down the hall, getting louder by the moment. She froze and saw Jones do the same. The sound drew closer, and then it slowed down. Finally, it stopped and they heard the ding. Her blood went cold and she reached for her weapon.

  But the doors didn’t open. She stood there a moment, realizing the elevator had stopped on the floor just below them. Quinn closed her eyes, a cool shot of relief hitting her. Jones got back to work and soon they were in.

  Inside, Quinn waited for her eyes to adjust to the dark as she felt the joyous relief of a well-cooled home. She searched the place, looking for signs that some night owl was up and offering yet another obstacle. But the main living area was quiet and people-free.

  Quinn couldn’t help but look around. Linden’s home was gorgeous, but not like Clive McCloskey’s was. The furnishings weren’t the modern, perfectly arranged ones of a childless couple. Instead, the Lindens’ living room had big, comfy couches and chairs arranged on fluffy rugs near a giant TV. Like they were a family who spent time together. And they had plants, real ones, the kind that needed regular water and AC to survive, that grew tall and green, the houseplants her dad had said everyone took for granted until they could no longer afford them.

  And the view. While the McCloskey home had the greenhouse window, the Lindens had an expansive view of the city lights outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, where she could even see a couple of stars in the sky. Quinn felt a jab to her gut when she spotted the glass dome of the botanic gardens in the distance.